Someone's Listening: An emotional tale of love and betrayal with a twist

By Susan Mimram

Against the backdrop of the Cold War comes a gripping and deeply moving story of family, love and betrayal.

Lidia is a wilful young girl with an enquiring mind, so was it something she said? Was it something she heard? Or was it her father’s dogged resistance to join the Communists that dealt a devastating blow

• Language: English
• Publisher: DreamMaker Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648310129

Susan Mimram

Susan Mimram is an Australian debut novelist. She turned her hand to novel writing in 2010 when her father was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Her passion for writing is juggled with her passion for illustration. But as she says 'A picture is worth a thousand words but a story can move a thousand hearts'.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS EASTER SUNDAY and one hour before midnight. It wasn’t the painting of the eggs I remember but the noise and the shaking of the earth when the hole in Slavinkov Street appeared. Most of the neighbourhood was in church but in seconds everyone was huddled in the corners hoping to God the domed roof didn’t fall in. And rather than celebrating the resurrection, the only thing rising out of that night was fire and dust. A once dark sky had turned amber. Fearful folks rallied around my father and when the bombers left he led us out. In the street everything was in place save for the looks of bewilderment on locals venturing out. Though a block away Slavinkov Street had taken a hit. We rounded the corner and shocked gasps sucked the conversation out. Then came the screams, the staggering shadows and the wailing of the injured.

Fortunately for us our big old building stood strong. Its baroque façade still had the appearance of an iced wedding cake though the cherubs were sooty and the double-bay windows had glass panels missing. But two doors down was a different story. In fact there were no storeys left. My mother splayed open the side of her coat to shield me from the human mess left behind as the dust settled. She bustled my brother and I into the apartment and *Tatko went about the business of tending the injured.

At six years old that is what I remember of the Easter that became Black Easter. But after that my friends and the other local children had a whole new place to play. Broken walls and rubble piled high became medieval castles and when it rained, moats filled and streams flowed. You could look up at the missing bricks at the top of a wall and suddenly there were turrets and battlements where bows made of sticks and string could fire at the enemy. We were never quite sure who was the enemy, be they Germans, Americans, or Turks but it did not matter for we were always victorious. And as for the neighbours who lived two doors down, before it was a hole, my father said they didn’t like living there anymore and had moved away. He said the only thing holding up their apartment were the wardrobes, so when they moved out the whole building tumbled to the ground.

Tatko was a good ten years older than most of my friends’ fathers but a good deal more fun. Head and shoulders above the rest he could appear imposing but his deep, soft voice delivered sound advice, be it to a neighbourhood dispute or comforting words to the dying. I guess he didn’t fit the mould of doctor, with hands more suitable to holding a spanner than a scalpel, and a sense of humour that could take the sting out of a gravel rash or a painful situation. And as was his habit, a few freshly-baked treats hidden from Mama in the lower drawer of his desk made a child’s visit to the surgery less traumatic. I’m sure she knew she’d baked twelve and not ten but for that she came to accept. It shortened a squeal from the front room when a needle jab into a little plump arm was necessary.

There were two things he couldn’t abide —fools and bullies, and usually they went hand in hand. He was a member of the Country Party as my grandfather was before, so being made to join the Communists was something he found hard to accept.

Three years after the war ended, the buildings stopped falling and our country had a brand new set of leaders.

Tatko hit the newspaper with the back of his large hand. ‘Who do they think they are, nominating themselves as our leaders? They’re just a bunch of lowbrow blockheads with barely enough brains to wield mops around a latrine.’

‘Sshh...Keep your voice down,’ said my mother. ‘You’ll have every tongue in the neighbourhood wagging.’

His eyes flicked to her then back to the paper and he muttered something under his breath and read on.

Mama let out a long sigh and looked across to me. ‘It’s time you were in bed.’

‘But it’s not late.’

‘Did you hear me?’

I slid the jigsaw puzzle back into the box, kissed them goodnight and dragged my feet to the bathroom.

‘Make sure to clean your teeth,’ she called.

I did but I decided to forego the usual two-minute humming that accompanied my teeth brushing session. Tatko said that if you hummed when you cleaned your teeth the vibration loosened the germs. But tonight they got a reprieve and soon enough my ear was pressed to the bathroom door. I hated to be banished when they were about to have one of those adult conversations. It only served to make it more alluring to listen in.

‘They just don’t know when to back off,’ he said.

‘For goodness sake, Aleksi, just join the party. Stop making such a big issue out of it. Life would be easier if you weren’t so stubborn.’

‘I’ll be darned if they’re going to take away my freedom to have an opinion,’ he said.

‘Aleksander, stop it. I’m tired of hearing this.’

‘You think I should roll over? Give in! I’m telling you, not without a fight.’

‘And what do you mean by that?’

There was a pause then he continued in a softer tone. ‘It’s the principle of the matter. I’m not the only one who feels this way. There are others at the Faculty who feel the same.’

‘I don’t care what they think,’ she said. ‘I care about us. Your principles will be the death of you.’

The chair legs screeched across the floor and soon after, cutlery was fired into drawers and cupboards were slammed. If Mama was upset the kitchen was the place that took a battering. I tiptoed out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where my brother lay cramming for his high school exam. He looked over and feigned disinterest but I felt sure he was as disturbed as I by the din coming from the kitchen. Ten minutes later he turned off the lamp and we lay listening. I rolled to the wall and pulled the blanket over my ear, but the temptation to listen was great and I rolled back. An icy silence had descended on the other side. I looked across to the dark hump of Raphael curled in the bed opposite and took comfort we shared a room.

Tatko lowered his voice. ‘Come on, he said. Stop all this worry.’

‘I’m sick of hearing your constant rants. And I’m sick of listening to that broadcast, too. All you seem to do lately is twiddle the nob on that radio. It’s not a good thing and the children shouldn’t be exposed to it,’ she said.

‘They don’t understand.’

‘They understand enough. Plus that’s not the only thing.’

‘What… don’t tell me there’s more?’

‘Yes. Stop attending to the mishaps of the neighbours. They should go to the hospital. It’s only inviting trouble.’

‘Huh! That’s the problem,’ he replied. ‘People are too afraid to stand up for what they believe in. I’m a doctor for heavens sake. I didn’t go to University for seven years to be treated this way!’

‘That’s not so. You know very well you are respected. There’s not one doctor who doesn’t admire you.’

‘Being acknowledged by your colleagues means nothing. We’re treated with disdain! They can shove official dogma down my throat but I’m never going to swallow it.’

It was rare to hear them argue. Mostly their disputes were more akin to lively discussions, but on that night Mama’s voice hovered just below shrill. The only comfort gained was it had not escalated to the level of our neighbours Mr and Mrs Lolovi. Their disputes often left one wondering if all that was left was hair tufts and skin scraps.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘On a scale of one to ten where would you say I rank in the intelligence stakes?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not taking this seriously.’

‘Answer me.’

There was a short pause till she replied. ‘An eight.’

‘Then, you don’t have to keep telling me the same thing over and over. I got it the first time.’

The orange stripe in the middle of the rug between our beds was the demarcation line but in recent days I felt compelled to cross it and climb onto Raphael’s bed.

I nudged him in the ribs. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you think she’s crying?’

‘Don’t worry. Things will be ok in the morning,’ he said and he rolled over and placed the pillow over his head.

‘But I don’t understand?’

He lifted the pillow up and rolled back.

‘I’ve got stuff I have to remember tomorrow. Go to sleep.’

With that said, he gave me a firm push. I slid from his bed and begrudgingly returned to mine. He was right. The following morning the night’s argument had been laid to rest and things returned to normal.

In the corner of the bedroom was my museum, a rosewood china cabinet that once belonged to my grandmother. After her death Mama thought it too old fashioned to be in the lounge, so it was shunted into our bedroom. Despite Raphael ribbing me over my collection I was very particular about what I displayed, be it a shiny bottle top, a dried bug skewered to the back of an empty matchbox or a feather. My most treasured possession was a vivid blue butterfly with wings that spanned eight centimetres, edged in a frill of white. On finding it I named it Freedom, for butterflies were free to fly to wherever the wind would take them. I placed it in a glass jar, positioned it pride of place and relocated the butcher’s finger to one shelf down. The day that finger departed the hand of Yanko was the day that saw him wildly running down Slavinkov Street with a bloodied tea towel wrapped around his hand, and his chubby wife hard on his heels holding a china bowl with the severed digit. Alas there was no possibility of re-attachment and Yanko’s loss was my gain.

With a lot of pleading, Tatko allowed me to keep it for anatomical reasons. It was submerged in a jar of formaldehyde with a screw top lid and I covered it with a lace edged handkerchief to keep the dust off. For a long while it was the star of my museum. Yanko never knew that a small part of him was famous amongst the local children. He retrained his trembling hand to clutch the meaty joints but never with the same dexterity.

Time slipped past, the museum filled to capacity and by the time I’d reached twelve my interest in the encased curiosities waned. Brushing hair was no longer a chore and things once considered sissy were now more interesting. It came as a relief to Mama as my scruffy appearance was something she couldn’t abide. Patching knees and discouraging my pursuit to beat the boys was not what she had envisioned. I guess she had her reasons. Everyone always said that I had the prettiest mother in the neighbourhood and Mama lived up to that. You’d never see my mother in a little handkerchief headscarf and thick grey stockings. She wasn’t a short woman but under Tatko’s arm she appeared smaller despite the stretch in her graceful neck.

They were an odd match in many ways. Probably it was a case that what one lacked the other filled, like the pieces of a jigsaw fitting snuggly to form the complete picture. She kept an ordered house, and had a busy-ness that continued even when the household chores appeared to be over. Tatko on the other hand was less concerned. At work he was meticulous but home was a different story. Certainly things had a place but it did not mean that was in a drawer or a cupboard. As long as the item ended up in the right room it didn’t worry him if it hung from a door handle or was flung to the floor. He was a free thinker and when he left the rigors of the hospital, home life was to be treasured. On the occasion he managed to listen to the new-fangled western jazz, he would let loose a flurry of cheery movement, flicking fingers to the rhythm coming from our old gramophone speaker. It wasn’t that

Mama protested but a disapproving look could sometimes hinder that little part of his spirit that liked to take flight every now and again.

It was Sunday night. The table cleared, the dishes done. Mama positioned the sewing machine and draped the table in eight metres of red velvet. It was a gift from a former patient and she was eager for it to grace the living room windows. Soon the needle was thumping a line of stitches and gathers in competition with the piercing whistles and white noise coming from the radio. It was hard to understand why Tatko bothered as tuning into the Radio Free Europe took patience and determination.

Mama looked up as she turned the sewing machine wheel. ‘What about some music instead of letting us suffer all that noise?’

His soft brown eyes met hers. ‘In a few seconds it will stop.’

She raised her eyes to the ceiling then looked at me with a disapproving shake of her head. ‘Don’t tell anyone your father listens to that silly station,’ she said.

‘Why would I? It’s boring.’

I lay stomach down on the rug turning the pages of the encyclopedia at his feet till settling on The Planets of Our Universe, and I looked up puzzled. ‘How many?’

‘Ssh... One moment,’ he said. ‘I just want to listen to this.’ And he drew his ear closer to the radio set.

Raphael looked over from his studies and Mama did her best to switch off from the foreign report. Radio Free Europe had outsmarted its opponents and through the speaker the tones of a West German announcer crackled.

Friends of freedom… A new way of reaching you… the free world… Look to the skies tomorrow. Hundreds of balloons with messages of… we have not forgotten you.

Tatko had studied medicine in Vienna before the war leaving him with a love of the German language and he liked to impart this on us. I had caught most of what had been said and was curious. Especially on seeing his stony expression accompanied by an approving nod.

‘What were they talking about?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said and immediately changed the channel.

But nothing often meant everything, and I was old enough to know that a nothing accompanied by an adult frown meant trouble was brewing.

‘Sometimes you treat me like a child,’ I said.

He nodded and smiled. ‘You are.’

‘I’m twelve,’ I said tightening my folded arms.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And you’ve a few years before you’re a grown up.’

He reached over to tickle me but I gently pushed his hand aside.

‘What did the man say?’

Mama shot him a look and cleared her throat, causing him to straighten in his chair. He smiled. ‘What were you going to ask?’

But it was too late. I had flicked past the pictures of the planets and momentarily lost interest in the Universe. I closed the book.

‘Come on, don’t be silly. What was it?’

Two could play that game.

‘Nothing.’ I said.

Tatko and I talked of many things but sometimes there were conversations out of bounds and this was one of them. He gathered his trouser at the knee and folded his straight legs. His eyebrows joined and his sharp nose appeared to guide his eyes along the printed line in an effort to dissuade further questioning.

The following morning he sat dressed in his grey flannel suit, eating breakfast and dunking sourdough into his yogurt. He raised his napkin to his moustache, gave it a vigorous rub then walked over to Mama.

‘I’ll be back for lunch around one,’ he said and he placed his hand against her cheek. ‘Stop worrying.’

‘Be careful,’ she said.

‘Of what?’

‘I just feel today’s different,’ she said patting down the lapels of his suit.

‘You worry too much.’

He raised his hand to her cheek and pulled down the lower rim of her eye. ‘Anaemia. You need iron.’

‘My friend’s sister has an iron deficiency.’ I interjected.

‘Does she now.’

‘Yes and I told her she should suck on nails?’

He laughed. ‘I haven’t heard of that approach. It can’t be too good for your teeth.’

He ruffled my hair and kissed Mama. From the hallstand he pinched the front of his felt hat, placed it slightly forward on his head and checked himself in the mirror. With a slight re-adjustment of the brim he picked up his small leather case and waved goodbye. Unbeknown at the time, the image of that farewell would leave an indelible mark on Mama, Raphael, and me.

CHAPTER 2

WE STOOD UNDER a cool sun in ordered rows, ready for compulsory school warm ups before class. Between star jumps and side bends my eyes scanned the sky. Soon balloons from a foreign land would be floating high on a westerly breeze. Our teacher was in her late thirties and held in her breast a pride that she was somehow related to the president. Something I never told Tatko for he wasn’t keen on the President. He liked to refer to him as Little Stalin.

Class was run under Comrade Chervenkova’s strict guidance and the thought that a misdemeanour could reach all the way to the top was more effective than a rap over the knuckles with the cane. She received a lot of attention but not the attention for which she longed. Her didactic instruction could keep a fidgety class stuck eyed and ridged but behind her wide brassiere-strapped back, small faces twisted, and muffled titters played out. We filed into a line as straight as an arrow and she led us into class. There were four two-seater desks across and five rows deep. We scrambled to be seated. Timber flip-top lids were raised, textbooks and pencils gathered. Comrade Chervenkova brought the class to order with a firm clap of her hands.

‘Good morning. Today we will start our lesson with current events. Is there anyone who has news they would like to share with us this morning?’

My hand shot up with a pointed finger.

‘Yes Lidia, do you have something to tell us?’

‘I do, Comrade.’

‘Come up then.’

Every head turned. This was my moment. I stood up, brushed down my skirt and walked to the front. I picked up the white chalk in the wooden trough at the base of the blackboard and drew a large circle with a wiggly line at the bottom then turned to face the class.

Comrade Chervenkova smiled. ‘What’s this all about?’ she asked.

‘Today hundreds of balloons shall be floating across the sky.’

‘Really? And where did you hear that?’

‘I heard it on the radio last night Comrade.’

She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Now that is interesting,’ she said and she turned her thick neck to scan the class with a keen eye.

‘Are there any other pupils who have heard such a thing?’

The class fell silent. Hands were firmly on the desks and mouths firmly shut. I looked about certain others had heard it too. On realising this was not the case it gave me a sense of pride to think I was the only one privy to the exciting news.

‘That’s an interesting snippet of information,’ she said and she pushed her tortoiseshell glasses further up the bridge of her nose. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

‘No Comrade.’

‘Very well, sit down.’

I walked back without the anticipated class response but confidant that by the end of the day I would be proven right.

Since the closure of the surgery, Tatko and Mama had been sent to work at the hospital. It was common for us to have lunch together due to the close proximity of our apartment to the school and the hospital. It was unheard of to start eating before Tatko sat down but that day things were different.

‘Eat up,’ said Mama placing the steamy bowl of vegetable soup on the table.

I looked at the tall seat firmly tucked under the head of the table but before I could ask she said, ‘He’ll be back later.’ And she unscrewed a little bottle of painkillers and swallowed two tablets.

‘Are you ok?’ asked Raphael.

‘Yes. Just a little headache. Now eat up.’

Raphael shrugged and spooned up his soup but I got the feeling there was more to it than that.

‘He said he was coming home for lunch.’

‘Something came up,’ she replied.

We ate in silence and without having finished she rose from the table and poured the other half down the sink. Mama’s soup was always a challenge but it struck me as odd because her Russian background saw no food ever wasted. Many were the times my left- over portion became a battle of wills. I was not allowed to leave the table until every spoonful was eaten. It was a losing battle. I’d force it down on the third count, raise my eyes to the ceiling and gulp hard. This time I made sure I ate it all but she seemed not to notice.

Senior school was in the afternoon and junior school the morning, so when lunch was over I was left with the cleanup. Raphael returned to school and Mama to the hospital dispensary.

‘Hurry up,’ she said, tucking in the tail of his shirt. ‘Take some pride in your appearance.’

He grimaced and bent down to tie his shoelace. His teenage years saw fewer asthma attacks but his bony frame had yet to acquire a good amount of muscle. He had reached the age when to be seen walking with a parent caused maximum embarrassment and Mama’s fussing did not make it easy. He stood and flung his school bag on his back then tugged at his shirt. To appear a little rough around the edges was preferable to looking like Mama had dressed him. I smirked and he rolled his eyes and hurried ahead. He could be a tease at times but I made sure I gave as good as I got and as far as a brother went he would do. There was no mistaking he was Tatko’s son. His hair was dark and slicked back to the crown of his head, the shaven sides emphasizing ears that stood out a little more than he would have liked. Nevertheless he was handsome despite the awkwardness of youth.

I cleared the lunch dishes and stood at the sink frothing the wire soap holder into hot water.  Looking out through the kitchen window I stared up at a strip of dirty white sky between our building and the next. It was disappointing to see a sky full of swallows and not a balloon in sight but there was still a